


in a faraway land

by TheAceApples



Series: RvB Rarepair Week 2018 [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, GFY, Multi, Role Reversal, Role Swap, RvB Rarepair Week, Simulation Trooper!Sam, implied/pre-Agent Washington/Locus | Samuel Ortez
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 14:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14571402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAceApples/pseuds/TheAceApples
Summary: Second verse, same as the first.





	in a faraway land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [norcumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/norcumi/gifts).



No master of stealth, the tread of Agent Washington’s boots give him away long before he appears on their edge of the cliff overlooking the canyon.

“Private. What is the _one_ thing I tell you, each and every morning?”

Eyeing Grif’s inscrutable faceplate across the rocky expanse between them, he barely thinks before answering, “Wake up.”

Grif jumps slightly at the reply, having actually drifted off waiting for him to make his bet. Agent Washington’s voice spans an impressive range first thing in the morning. His lips quirk up in a tiny smile behind his own helmet as he finally adds his wager to the pot; which of those three things actually prompts the smile, he’ll never tell.

Agent Washington doesn’t even sigh, which is disappointing. His bland, “The other thing,” considerably less so.

Taking the opportunity as it’s presented, he offers an equally-bland, “For the love of God, stop sleeping naked,” just as Grif makes to deal out the river. The Red fumbles spectacularly, turning the air blue as Caboose’s armor while gathering the cards back up, and teeth enter the equation of his smile.

“Don’t let _anyone. Touch. The tank.”_ Agent Washington still doesn’t sigh, nor does he squeak, but the way he bites out the words, he nearly sounds like Recovery One again. That holds its own appeal, but it’s not what he was after. Beggars and choosers, though.

Grif flips him off, manages to deal the river unmolested, and they subside once again to consider their choices. Agent Washington shifts from foot to foot behind him, but Grif is a canny opponent, and a Recovery-level irritate Washington is not the fun he’s after. Without moving a muscle, he says, in that mild tone of voice that he knows the Freelancer hates, “I didn’t.”

“Then _how_ did I find Sarge blowing up half of Red Base with it,” Agent Washington says archly, carefully maneuvering his way across the rocky outcrop so that he stands perpendicular to the pot. His tone remains highly-unattractive as he continues, “And _why_ did Caboose say that _you_ OK-ed its use.”

“Holy _shit,”_ Grif laughs, leaning back on his hands to pop that persistent kink between his ninth and tenth thoracic vertebrae. “Sarge blew up the fucking base? Glad we’ve been up here since breakfast, then. Asshole probably would’ve tried to shoot me…”

He gives up his focus and finally angles his helmet to meet the Freelancer’s gaze. He calculates the likelihood of getting away with a lie, and shrugs before saying, in all honesty, “I wasn’t actually paying attention to what he was saying; I tuned out after he said the sergeant propositioned us and just told him to give the Red whatever he was after so that he’d leave. I assumed he was just there to steal your toolbox again.”

Washington manages to keep his cool for a solid 6.2 seconds—according to his HUD’s stopwatch feature—before shrieking, _“Private Ortez, you do not have the authority to hand over the tank **or** my toolbox to **anyone** ,”_ at a pitch that likely startled whatever passed for wildlife on their new planet. He finally lets out the grin that’s been growing ever since he’d realized what he’d agreed to over the radio.

“Of course, sir, I completely understand,” he demures, settling his weight back on one arm so that his body becomes a long, inviting slash of olive green against the jungle-canyon backdrop. He can almost see Agent Washington’s eye twitch beneath the Church-blue helmet at the display.

“Well maybe if somebody hadn’t crashed the ship,” Washington snaps, “we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Grif gives a long, low whistle and throws in the final bet. The whistle rings in his ears as he calls without thought, and Ortez hears himself drawl, “I can’t imagine what you might be insinuating, Wash.”

“I just have a hard time believing that the thousands of well-trained crewmembers were to blame for the incident.” Agent Washington’s voice returns to its previously unattractive state as he says this, but something in his stance shifts and softens, and the ringing fades.

“I’m flattered by your faith in my seduction abilities,” Ortez replies with a snort, and wriggles in place slightly for no practical reason whatsoever. “But I wasn’t near anyone when we crashed, so do save your jabs for the ones responsible.”

His voice comes out sharper than had intended, and that weird, soft thing in the Freelancer’s body-language disappears immediately. “Duly noted,” he says, sharp but toneless. “Meet me down by the base when you’re done losing half your candy stash and all of your cigarettes to Private Grif’s three of a kind, then.”

He stalks off and makes his way down the steep, winding path back into the canyon while Grif cackles and jeers and moves to sweep the pot over to the Red side of the cliff. The noise cuts off when Ortez, mouth tasting of metal and grinning like a skeleton, throws down his hole cards to reveal a flush of hearts.

Grif stares dumbly at the cards for several seconds before tilting his helmet back up and saying, with utter seriousness, “You guys have _really fucked-up_ courtship rituals.”


End file.
